Metamorphosis
by D. Genesis
Summary: Because He was more than just another discarded fragment of Voldemort's soul, He was a shard of what was once Tom Riddle: a brilliant, jaded, loveless orphan with the makings for greatness. If only he'd been given the chance... And then he was. Even if it was entirely too late. (A Drabble series)


**Metamorphosis**

 **Summary:** Because He was more than just another discarded fragment of Voldemort's soul, He was a shard of what was once Tom Riddle: a brilliant, jaded, loveless orphan with the makings for greatness. If only he'd been given the chance... And then he was. Even if it was entirely too late. (A Drabble series)  
 **Warnings:** None - at the moment **  
Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction; therefore I do not own the characters, most settings etc... save the writing itself and the plot.

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-x&x-

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The sixth shard of Lord Voldemort can honestly—well, as much as one with his dubious integrity _is_ able to, at least—claim, that when he finds himself trapped, a mere... prisoner _within_ his fifteen month-old nemesis, he is _most_ displeased.

Most displeased, indeed.

This was not meant to happen.

Was not planned.

He ponders the case of this most unexpected and unhappy circumstance. Mulls over the details, the hows and the whys of it. Considers the possibilities that it's tied in with his... _ambitious_ scheme to escape the inevitable fetters of mortality—

And decides it's simply the Potter brat's fault.

Of _course_ it is.

There is no way he made a miscalculation. Can't have. It's... impossible; therefore it must be due to the whelp and his mudblood mother.

This unhappy conclusion changes nothing in the grand scheme of things. He's still in the exact same position, still imprisoned within the very being he wishes to destroy and yet unable to lift a single finger against it.

 _What foreign magic is this?_

And... his new existence is a _wretched_ one.

Patently _more_ pathetic than his life before the Before, where the wonders of magic brought colour to his listless, monochrome world; lit it with wonders unimaginable and led him into temptation with all the delicacies yet untried by his inexperienced palate...

The 'Before Magic' portion of his life isn't a period of time he likes to dwell on... _often_.

Uses it for reference, mostly. It's too pa—

He prefers to separate himself from that... unpleasant time in his life but concludes, with a seething bitterness and repugnance, that his 'before the Before' is still better than the realities of his _now_.

Now he's cursed with awareness, with _existence_... but not—not _existing_.

Not _truly_.

His awareness is vast yet centralised, _shackled_ , focused primarily upon the inconsequential particulars that pertain to the loathsome creature that houses him. Unable to cease his constantly revolving thoughts; to close his eyes—what eyes?—for reprieve; to shut out the goings on around him.

He's an unwanted, unnoticed voyeur; a spectator in the life of another.

Worse than before, because at least then he had _form_. A _voice_.

Now he simply _is_.

And no one but himself can hear his screams.

Until one day, someone _does_.

His time trapped as a parasitic prisoner _isn't_ fluid.

At least, not in the way he expects, considering his inability to do anything more than simply _watch_. It's sporadic and brittle, much like the attentions his thrice cursed enemy receives from what are, presumably, _family_.

The mudblood mother's, supposedly.

 _Muggles_.

The situation is so ironic it's amusing.

Lord Voldemort doesn't feel one whit of sympathy for the insufferable Potter spawn; isn't capable of such... tender sentiment and while he relishes _every_ moment the whelp suffers, he can't stand that it's filthy, worthless _muggles_ who are the cause.

This makes him _furious_.

And that's when _it_ happens.

The brat is back in his bedroom—a glorified storage cupboard, of all things; complete with products best left away from young, ponderous minds and sticky, curious fingers—arms curled around his stubby knees and utterly blind in the darkness that enfolds his tiny, not yet four-year-old form. The only light visible is that which sneaks in from beyond the cupboard door, a misshapen luminescent outline of golden yellow.

"Sorry," the boy murmurs, voice undeveloped and wispy.

Voldemort ignores this, well used to the brat talking to himself by now and continues his furious diatribe against the world and, of course, the lowliness of muggle filth.

The boy releases his knees and shuffles across the dusty floor, lifts a hand to his forehead and _touches_ Him.

Voldemort starts.

The touch is feather light, as though the boy is trying to... soothe it— _Him_?—and he stills completely, bewildered by the brat's gentleness and yet... not.

It's basic human nature, isn't it, the desire to belong? And clearly, the child doesn't belong here, not in the world filled with those... inferior imposters, who _look_ like them and yet are so far removed that they're little better than the animals they claim superiority to.

The better, greater species, indeed.

"Do you feel better now?" Is the boy's next query.

Voldemort's confusion recedes, replaced with irritated comprehension at the most basic of psychological needs presented to him.

Loathe as he is to admit anything remotely positive about his prison, the whelp is, at the very least, magical and several steps up from his muggle... relatives; therefore any sort of acceptance from them is laughable. When did vermin ever accept a snake in their den? It made sense then, that the child, young and vulnerable would seek what it needed _else_ where.

Even within himself, more specifically, an imaginary friend that happened to reside in his scar.

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-x&x-

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So, as I noted on AO3, I'm trying to motivate myself into writing again now that I've gotten a little more time and what better way than Drabbles?

Hopefully you liked it and thanks for reading :)


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